by Julie Daines
Aunt Imogene, who had been clucking over her preparations, beamed at her. “Whyever would he not? He requested a dance, and he doesn’t strike me as the sort of young man who would break a promise.”
“His mother may forbid it. She looks formidable.”
Aunt Imogene’s laugh warmed Lucy. “She does indeed, but Lord Edmund is a grown man. He certainly knows his own mind. Besides, if he’s the sort who lets his mother rule his life, would you want his attention?”
Lucy knew full well the power families could wield when they chose, money being chief among the weapons they might employ, but far from the only one. Loyalty, the primacy of family ties, custom, and habit all came to bear for those with modest means as much as those with more. Her own presence in Bath gave testimony to that.
“It’s only a dance, Aunt Imogene. He may choose not to upset her over such a trifle.”
“Lucy! Don’t you want to dance with the man? He certainly seems eager to fix your attention.”
“He did earlier,” Lucy said glumly. “I’m afraid I may have been too honest about our family circumstances. The closer we got to home, the quieter he became, and when we reached the door, he rushed off as if he couldn’t wait to get away. So please don’t spin any fairy tales about Lord Edmund Parker. We may not see him again.” At her aunt’s crestfallen face, she rushed on, “I will not be castaway over one forgotten dance, Aunt. You are not to worry. I will enjoy myself this evening. Perhaps Mr. Hunter will ask me to dance again.”
Aunt Imogene gave an unladylike snort. “He’s old enough to be your father.”
“Perhaps.” Lucy grinned. “But he doesn’t step on my toes.”
“We’d best be off before we’re more than fashionably late, young lady. You don’t want to be the one to stand up that young man of yours.”
“Lord Edmund Parker is merely an acquaintance. He is not my young man!”
“So you say . . .”
An hour later, Lucy scanned the assemblage for any sign of her “acquaintance” but found none. Mr. Hunter had indeed asked her to dance, and the rigors of the steps brought roses to her cheeks. The skinny son of a barrister, whose clammy hands she remembered from previous outings, had been eyeing her for ten minutes, and she feared he would request a dance as well.
Before he could do so, however, a ripple of excitement went through the throng, and Lucy saw the Marchioness of Waringford poised in the doorway, surveying the company with a haughty gaze before acknowledging the master of ceremonies, who bowed so low Lucy feared his nose would scrape the floor. The marchioness paraded forward to the place of honor the master had hurriedly prepared for her. Only then did Lucy see him.
Lord Edmund stopped in the doorway as his mother had, but his eager survey of the room had none of his mother’s arrogance. Lucy had only ever seen him dressed plainly before, usually in the same gray suit. Tonight, he dressed entirely in black, aside from the pristine white linen of his shirt and the exquisitely tied neck cloth. She could barely breathe just seeing him, and then he met her eyes, and her breath stopped completely, only to come back in a swift intake when he walked toward her.
His eyes held hers while he made his way to her. She couldn’t have looked away if she tried. She didn’t try. When he stood in front of her and smiled down at her with eyes that reminded her of the same rich chocolate as his voice, she almost melted. He bowed, breaking eye contact, and reality descended.
“You grace us with loveliness tonight, Miss Ashcroft,” he murmured.
She had little experience with men’s fashion, but even Lucy could see that both the material and the cut of his clothing were of the first stare of fashion. His suit alone must have cost the moon. She felt like a sparrow in her new gown by comparison. She blushed, flustered, and blurted out, “And you look magnificent.”
She wanted to sink into the floor. Ladies did not comment on a gentleman’s person!
The laughter in his eyes bore no mockery. He leaned closer and whispered, “Do you like my finery? I’m trying to appease my mother.”
Lucy blinked and glanced across the room only to see the marchioness glaring at them. “Oh my. It doesn’t seem to be working.”
He ignored her concern, although it must have been obvious. “Shall we dance, Miss Ashcroft? Between us, we will quite put the company in the shade in all our finery,” he said, extending a hand to lead her out.
She took it and forgot the marchioness entirely.
* * *
Edmund thought Lucy Ashcroft a perfect lady from the tips of her toes to the delightful rosettes in her glorious hair. Her graceful movement through the steps of the dance enchanted him, even as the light in her eyes held him fast.
The dance ended much too soon, and she sank into a perfect curtsy as he bowed, his eyes never leaving hers. They rose and stood, grinning at one another rather longer than was proper before he offered her his arm to return her to her aunt. When he looked around, he saw more than one pair of eyes watching them with a speculative gleam. He didn’t dare look in his mother’s direction.
When they approached Mrs. Crane, he saw that Mrs. Wellbridge had joined her and that both ladies positively beamed at him. His heart sank. He had tried to tell himself sternly that he needed to have a care lest he give Miss Ashcroft expectations he could not meet. It seemed he was too late. The aunt and her cronies, at least, already had expectations.
Edmund greeted the two women politely before bowing over Lucy’s hand. “Thank you for honoring me with a dance, Miss Ashcroft,” he said with perfect politeness. He tried to ignore her puzzled expression when he hurried away. Who can blame her for being confused? She must think I go from hot to cold in an instant.
When his head cleared and he realized he was walking in his mother’s direction, her thunderous expression made him veer off toward the punch bowl, where a number of gentlemen stood in clusters watching the dancing. He nodded politely and took a glass of punch, drank deeply, and grimaced.
“Not the finest, is it? Not as weak as I hear they make it at Almack’s, though,” a man said.
Edmund had to laugh. He had tasted the fare in the hallowed halls of Almack’s and he had to agree. “No, but I think they may have slipped Bath water into it.”
The gentleman looked around furtively and moved to block Edmund from view of the crowd. He produced a small flask and raised an eyebrow. Edmund smelled gin, but thought it couldn’t be any worse than the punch already tasted. He nodded, and the man tipped a helping into Edmund’s cup.
“I’m John Oates,” the stranger said, holding out a hand.
“Edmund Parker,” Edmund replied, shaking it.
“That would be Lord Edmund, I believe,” another man put in.
“For my sins, yes,” Edmund answered.
The men stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the next dance form. “That Ashcroft girl is a pretty chit,” Oates murmured without looking at Edmund.
Pretty? She’s glorious, Edmund thought. He didn’t answer the man. He watched a skinny boy lead Lucy out. Not one other lady here comes close to her.
“Looks like that barrister Oliver’s boy wants to cut you out, my lord,” one of the men said to universal laughter.
“He’d ought to be dancing with yon pathetic set,” another said, pointing toward the far corner and setting off more ribald chuckling. Edmund followed their eyes to where three plain girls sat with identically bored expressions, hands folded in their laps, obviously lacking partners. Why aren’t any of you leading them out? he wondered.
When the next set formed, a man old enough to be Lucy’s father led her out. Not one of the men hiding by the punch bowl made an effort to ask a lady to dance.
“The Ashcroft girl has danced every set so far. You’ve put her into fashion, my lord,” one wag exclaimed.
“Lucy Ashcroft is a fine girl,” Oates said, pitching his voice for Edmund alone. “A baronet’s daughter. She would make a fine wife for a barrister or a squire. I hear she won’t come with much of a dowry, th
ough. Men care about that.” His knowing look irritated Edmund, who put his empty glass on the table.
“Thank you for the fortification,” he said, and he set out toward the sad young ladies in the corner.
Edmund led out each of the wallflowers, one by one. His attention did little to improve their popularity, but his kindness seemed to cheer them. One, he discovered, was a governess, another the daughter of a physician, and the third a vicar’s niece. All seemed pleasant enough, but none particularly held his attention.
Lucy danced every set, and men surrounded her between sets. Was she always this popular? The men’s gossip had implied otherwise. He watched her every step, unable to keep his eyes away, obsessed with the grace of her dancing, the wonder of her form, and the way gold highlights flickered off her honey-brown hair in the candlelight.
He led the third young lady, whose name he could not recall, back to her seat, determined to leave before he made a bigger cake of himself. He bowed absently and started across the room, studiously avoiding a glance in Lucy’s direction.
His mother greeted him with a sour expression. “Thank goodness. I thought you would never stop dancing. Has Bath run out of pathetic spinsters?” she snapped. He distracted her long enough to take their leave.
“At least you spread your consequence around,” she groaned when the carriage door closed. “Dancing with those creatures at least reflected on your kindness, exactly the sort of reputation one expects of a man of the cloth.”
“Every man can be kind if he chooses,” Edmund murmured, lost in his own thoughts.
“It would have been more effective if you didn’t keep staring at that Ashcroft chit.”
“I did no such thing. I danced with her as I had promised. That was all.”
“Any fool could see the way you watched her, Edmund. It will not do. People will believe you’ve formed some sort of attachment! You mustn’t let that happen.”
Too late, he thought morosely. He feared he had fallen in love and had no idea what to do about it.
Chapter Six
The marchioness attended the Pump Room the next day without her son, leaving Lucy downcast. She could hardly storm up to the woman and demand to know his whereabouts.
Aunt Imogene and Mary Wellbridge met bright and early that morning to gossip over every detail of the assembly on their way to the Pump Room. They regaled the others with Lucy’s “triumph.” It hardly felt that way to Lucy. Lord Edmund danced with her once and left with a curt bow. One moment he had been smiling warmly and the next he looked like he couldn’t get away fast enough. She determined to put him out of her mind and relegate the entire experience to a pleasant memory.
The following day was little different, only this time she did not see the marchioness either. Perhaps they returned to London, Lucy thought, determined to put the entire interlude behind her. She went about her customary trips to fetch Bath water for the ladies, but couldn’t help wishing Edmund would appear, especially when she trooped back to the counter the second time.
“May I help you with those, Miss Ashcroft?” His familiar voice set her heart racing. She couldn’t reply over the lump in her throat, but she happily handed over one of the glasses.
“Is your mother unwell?”
“I think she is fine, but perhaps a bit weary. We walked about the Crescent Fields yesterday. Her companion told me she simply wanted to sleep late and recover,” Edmund said wryly, the lines around his eyes crinkling up with good humor. The open park that faced the Royal Crescent wouldn’t constitute an exhausting journey to any of Aunt Imogene’s friends, let alone a healthy woman of middle age.
Lucy’s lips twitched. “She isn’t used to walking, I think,” she said, remembering the immense carriage that carried her to the Pump Room every morning.
“Unlike you,” Edmund agreed. “I thought perhaps I might walk you home again.”
She looked at him fully then. Sadness lurked in his kind eyes, and she didn’t know what to think about it. The temptation to brave another walk felt overwhelming, yet she feared another lift of spirits dampened by an abrupt change of mood. She had no idea what troubled the young man, but she longed to comfort him. If we walk, might he tell me?
“Thank you for the kind offer, but no,” she responded at last. “I promised Dr. Barry I would visit the clinic this morning.” The remembered errand provided a comfortable excuse.
When a flame of excitement drove the darkness from his eyes, her heart soared. “I help him as I am able every week,” she went on. “There are always children to entertain, older ladies with anxiety to soothe, bandages to roll, or tidying to do. I wish I could go every day, but Aunt Imogene begs me not to overdo.”
“May I go with you?” he asked, his anxious expression telling her the answer mattered to him a great deal.
“I suppose so, but I should warn you. It’s a poor clinic. The conditions may be unfamiliar or uncomfortable—not at all what you are used to.”
“You might be surprised by what I am used to,” he responded with a lift of his eyebrows.
They supplied the Circle with their daily dose, and Edmund asked Aunt Imogene if he might accompany Lucy.
“Oh, that would be perfect!” the old woman said. “I do not wish to see any more of that place than I must, and I dislike having Lucy go alone, but she will insist on it.”
“I’m needed, Aunt Imogene, and I try to repay Dr. Barry for his kindnesses.” Her face heated under the power of Edmund’s obvious approval. There was more to this man than dancing.
Soon the two of them walked along in companionable silence. She spoke when they turned toward a commercial district near the river and conditions looked bleaker. “Tell me. What are you so familiar with that I might be surprised, Lord Edmund?”
“You may think me some sort of society fribble, but I am not.”
“I never thought that!”
His smile might have lit Bath. “Oxford dominated most of my time these last years.”
“You’re a scholar?”
He shrugged. “I like studies, but no. I’m a third son—or I was—Miss Ashcroft. Theology is the fate of us all.”
“You’re to be ordained.” It wasn’t a question.
“Yes. Perhaps. I can’t decide. My parents expect it. I can’t bring myself to do it.”
She waited patiently, mulling over his words. Even the sons of powerful families bore the burden of family expectations. After a while, he stopped walking and turned to her.
“My father’s idea of the clergy is about power and influence. He has arranged an appointment to the Archbishop of Canterbury’s staff. I’ve told them I won’t do it. If I must be ordained, I want a parish.” He searched her face, and Lucy wondered if he could see into her soul. “I’m not meant to be a society preacher, Miss Ashcroft. I would seek a small parish or urban mission if I had to. My parents do not approve of either choice.”
“So you haven’t spent your time cutting a dash across the ton?” she said, swallowing.
“Oh, I did my time in London. You’ve seen my finery, so you can be certain I know my way around a ballroom. My parents would be appalled to know I spent most of my nights—”
Embarrassment caused pink blotches to rise up his neck and over his cheekbones when he went on, "Not that I did anything I'm ashamed of. Quite the contrary. They just don't understand."
She thought he meant to say more, but he took her arm abruptly and began walking.
What had he been about to confide? She didn’t have time to ask him, because they had arrived at the clinic.
* * *
Horace Barry managed much with very little. His clinic impressed Edmund from the first moment when the man looked up from examining an old man’s wound to sag with relief at the sight of Lucy. She managed the quickest of introductions before running off to do as the doctor bade her. His reaction to Edmund held less welcome.
“I don’t have time for the curious, Lord Edmund,” the man said, indicating the crowd waiting for
attention with a hand holding a lancet.
“Parker, please, and I agree, you do not,” Edmund replied. “How can I help?”
A snort was the reply. “Can you drain an abscess, Parker?”
“Yes.” Edmund almost laughed at the gape-mouthed response. “I spent some time with David Cartwright’s clinic last year, mostly observing, but he taught me the essentials.”
Barry handed him the lancet. “Get to it, in that case. Others need me.” He started to walk away. “Good man, Cartwright,” he said over his shoulder.
Edmund soon had the wound cleaned. He found bandages in good order. Supplies were meager, but well-organized. He even found a bit of honey he hoped would help heal the wound. He had doubts. He already knew a patient as elderly and under nourished as the one before him healed slowly, if at all.
“Keep this clean whatever you do, and come back next week so Dr. Barry can have a look at it,” he said, tying off the bandage. He knew cleanliness for this man might be a futile goal, but he had to urge it.
“Are ye th’ new doctor?” the old man asked. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Barry needs help, even if ye aren’t one.”
“I’m just visiting Bath.”
“Pity,” the old man said as he walked off, shaking his head.
“Here’s a scraped knee for you, Lord Edmund.” Lucy’s voice startled him. He had been staring after the elderly patient.
“Scraped knee?”
Lucy shrugged. “Dr. Barry said to bring her to you,” she said apologetically.
Edmund smiled down at a small girl in a dingy gown that looked more like a sack than a dress and probably had been. He lifted her to the table and began to inspect her knee. The cut looked deeper than a mere scrape. The child was lucky someone brought her in—and that there was a clinic to come to.
Hours flew by after that. One task gave way to another, and Edmund took what came his way. Once or twice he caught sight of Lucy, notebook in hand, talking to waiting patients, cleaning up, or restocking supplies where she could.
Late in the afternoon, it occurred to him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast and didn’t care. Then he realized belatedly that Lucy hadn’t eaten either, and he did care about that. Her Aunt Imogene will have my hide for not taking better care of her. He washed his hands and went in search of Barry.
